


A Song Without Words

by Privant



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/F, F/M, Hobbit Culture & Customs, M/M, Multi, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9275252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Privant/pseuds/Privant
Summary: The cleansing blackness had no rhyme or reason, only a single unending truth... and then, with the return of the Song, Bilbo Baggins was himself again, an age ago, before the greatest adventure of his life.Perhaps, if he plays his cards well, his wrongs can be righted before they even happen.





	1. True Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This work is intended to embellish upon Tolkien's lore while keeping his truths as a central core. Canon pulled from book and movies.  
> This work was previously listed on AO3 as "Still Waters"
> 
> Feedback is appreciated.

Even before this, darkness was something that he feared – but not the darkness that met him under friendly stars. **True darkness** was fear incarnate, and only underneath mountains had he ever encountered its like. Those moments of complete isolation during his journey through the Misty Mountains had tricked his mind and made him think he had died and been left to himself for time unending, though it had been only minutes.

Now, decades later, the **darkness** stretched on, and on, though really the blackness (was it even black, when there was nothing at all?) had no discernible dimension. Time dried up and his thoughts circled until it seemed that he had only once existed, somewhere outside the void, lifetimes ago. Once-familiar faces became blurred to the point that he wasn’t even sure what his own nephew had looked like. A muddy, pale face sometimes came to him, along with several others, though once they appeared his mind could not fashion names for them before they went away.

And then it was different.

Suddenly he noticed that there was no sound – and the unnerving wrongness of it jolted him far more than his closing mind. It was as if there had been a deep, continuous melody behind his life until this **black silence**... He threw his mouth open in a scream, throat and lungs straining, but nothing happened, and he drifted.

Something like alarm coursed through him as another presence appeared in the void, not to sight or sound yet echoing around him as nothing ever had before, or would again. Energy – and voiceless _Song_  –  vibrated his being. Briefly he was reminded of the Maiar – of Gandalf, he suddenly remembered – though the wizards were but children compared to this vastness. If he could speak, he would have cried out for the Valar to save him, or to put an end to him! Then, suddenly, it was gone, and he was twisted, lifted, moved, though he was still in the **void**...

 

And, then, nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Song refers to the Music of the Ainur, sung by Eru Ilúvitar at the Creation and every moment thereafter.
> 
> The Valar are the deities of Middle Earth, under Eru, which include Yavanna and Varda, to name a few.
> 
> The Maiar is the plural of Maia, the wizards including Gandalf and Saruman who were sent by the Valar to middle earth.


	2. Painting of the Past

After being assigned to that **endless blackness,**  light was nearly incomprehensible to Bilbo’s tattered brain. Through his eyelids he felt as if he was staring at the sun itself, and vaguely he thrashed in an effort to tuck his head under his arm to hide his eyes. His arm was so weak - and so sore! But he couldn't bring himself to form real thoughts just yet, except for some sort of pained relief.

Time passed, and the sun – for that really was what had been causing the brightness– turned from its zenith and hid behind clouds in what may have been a lazy afternoon. As he adapted to the light, Bilbo realized he could hear again, and some fear and tension bled out of him. The _Song_ circled him in the breeze, in the itchy grass and rocks beneath his body, and in the life he felt around him – even in that cursed sunshine! Birds whistled lowly and he lay, content in his whole being, in his restored thoughts, and in the end of whatever had happened. Even then the desperate emptiness of the **void** began to leave him, softened like a distant nightmare.

Finally Bilbo grew the courage to slowly open his eyes, though their watering and his continuous winces turned the motion into an hour’s work. His mind felt fuzzy the whole time through, as if he had spent some time drinking pints of ale or something stronger... though that couldn’t be right – he was dazed but there was definitely no alcohol on Valinor that mortals could palate.

He hadn’t generally put up with much of that ‘not for mortals’ manure, but after a single sip of some very good wine (and several days’ vomiting) he had not tried again.

It was late afternoon by the time he was really aware, and the shadows were lengthening into evening. Looking around, he noticed the area was familiar, but in a strange way, as if he was seeing the place through a memory. It occurred to him that wherever he was it was not anywhere near his residence at the edge of the Pastures, and worry for what his nephew and the others might think of his absence made him frown.

He was at the bottom of a casual hill, next to a ditch of some sort that separated the lush grass on the hilltop from a length of hay that looped around the back, and a rather attractive garden, before revealing a stretch of farmland and little hills. It looking much like parts of Hobbiton once had, before he had left and certainly before that awful business with Sharkey and the Scouring of the Shire. If he was brutally honest to himself, it looked more than a little like the view from his own spice garden at Bag End, the back way to Sandyman’s Mill in the distance.

Clearing his throat Bilbo suddenly wondered if he could speak, as he certainly seemed to be doing his other bodily functions fine enough.

“Erm. Hello? Yes. That doesn’t sound too bad at all” he croaked. “My name is Bilbo Baggins, and I am alive.”

Saying it brought more relief than he had thought, but left him still without his bearings. Interestingly enough he was becoming fiercely thirsty and hungry, as if he hadn’t eaten in a decade, which was strange as it seemed only last week that they had supped at a large party in his home in Valinor. One week certainly wasn’t enough time to feel hungry again, not with the incredibly rich, strange food served in the land of the undying, where meals took place every fortnight and lasted incredibly long in your stomach. Frodo had mentioned several times, near the beginning, that it was a bit like tastier lembas, though Sam had disagreed heartily, taking offense at the reminder of the dreaded waybread. None of the hobbits had ever really adapted to not having seven meals a day, or at least three or four, so they would often pantomime the action, sipping clear water and discussing what they would have made, working out old recipes. They had even managed to find a few flavorful grasses to chew. Often the elves that visited would sit, bemused, though Gandalf had seemed to think it another wonderful hobbit trait and made it a point to show up fairly often.

 

After a fashion, climbing to the top of the little hill was easy enough, though his legs ached as much as his arms. However, once he crested the hill he wished he hadn’t.

Laid out in front of him were the gentle curves of several smials, dotted with flowers and doorways and windows, with Bagshot Row cutting a swathe through the grass and fences to trail along to the South Field. Immediately he staggered and sat down, feeling as if he had fallen into a painting of his bachelor home. Scooting forward he was able to dangle his legs down over the drop he instinctively realized was there – it was as real as his body could make it – and suddenly he was sitting on top of Bag End, his home, his mother’s home, his father’s home, Frodo’s home.

The idea that he was dreaming, that he had been dreaming, flitted through his head, but the _Song_ he couldn’t shake seemed to strengthen in his mind and he put the idea out. Everything was too real for it to be an illusion. Even after the dragon and being trapped in the roots of a mountain and the worry for his friends and nephew since, nothing had been as fearful and alarming and real as that **void**.

It was likely far too easily that Bilbo accepted he would just have to deal with whatever was happening. That was Gandalf’s influence too, though at Bilbo’s age he had developed a lot of patience and reasoning on his own, thank you very much.

Bracing himself, he dropped down several feet from the little ledge above his smial and turned to stare blankly at the light blue door in front of him. That wasn’t right – really this whole thing wasn’t right – but his door hadn’t been blue since he had won some paint in a raffle at the market and had it made green by Hamfast decades hence. Idly, Bilbo stroked the paint, mimicking the rune mark on the old wood, and wondered what in the world had happened to this place. To him.

 

 

“Mister Bilbo!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valinor refers to the Undying Lands, where the Ringbearers eventually sailed with some of the last elves and Gandalf. Sam was included in the offer, and I had him take it. The Pasture where Bilbo lived is in specific reference to Yavanna's dwelling in Valinor, called the Pastures of Yavanna. This is a nod mostly to the popular fan idea that hobbits are creations of Yavanna, though I'll get more to specifics later in the fic.  
> The whole 'too strong for mortals' thing is my assumption, and a nod to the idea of ambrosia especially in Norse folklore, which makes sense to me considering Tolkien took a lot of inspiration there.
> 
> The places I reference in Hobbiton are taken from maps I found online, though they may be slightly out of place. Increasingly I'm realizing that the minutiae of where things are is up for interpretation.
> 
> Sharkey is an alias of the defeated Saruman, who sacked the Shire with the help of some greedy men and hobbits after the destruction of the One Ring, only to be overthrown by the hobbit fellowship.
> 
> The rune, of course, is the rune of the thief for hire that Gandalf eventually carves with his staff for the dwarrow to use as a meeting marker in the Hobbit.


	3. A Forgotten Meeting

At first the young voice felt like an echo in his head, and for a moment it was as if Sam was speaking to him. But the face down at the gate was not Sam’s, and it took Bilbo a moment to equate it with the old, grumpy Gaffer he had last known. The boy – for he was barely out of his tweens, if not still in them – waited eagerly at the gate, and a little down the Row Bilbo could see Holman Greenhand coming up behind him. Weakly Bilbo waved at Hamfast – for he couldn’t think of this boy as the Gaffer – to come through the gate. Respectfully the younger held it open for Holman as the older hobbit muttered something likely derogatory to his apprentice.

Somewhere in the corner of Bilbo’s mind he wondered if he was going completely insane.

 

With the two finally in front of him Bilbo cracked a weak smile and mustered up his best hobbit manners into a soft “Good afternoon” and a dip of his head. The two gardeners bowed at the waist and Sam handed Bilbo a sprig of honeysuckle in welcome, his dimpled grin enhancing his youth.

The three stood there for several long moments before Holman seemed to lose his patience.

“Alrigh’ there Bilbo? Is there something wrong wit’ your smial?” It was obvious where Hamfast had learned his later manners.

“Ah! No, no, I’m sorry but I would rather meet outside today, if you’re amicable.” Bilbo shuffled at his own weak response, but was reluctant to let them in – he didn’t even know what the inside of his smial was like, or if his door was locked, and he had enough troubles for one day. Abruptly he realized that he was dressed in something like his usual waistcoat, though he wondered how he looked compared to how he should. Fingering his pocket watch - a habit he had developed after the Ring - he led the two over to the side of the smial where several benches were set to admire the garden, busying himself with brushing off imaginary dust to avoid Holman’s stern eye.

In the end, the older gardener snorted, mumbling to himself, and then apparently decided that it was as good as he was going to get.

“We’d not like to take much of your time, Master Baggins, ‘specially as it seems you’ve forgotten our visit.”

Shoulders straightened, and Bilbo frowned as he tried to remember... if, indeed, this was around the time Hamfast was that age... what had he scheduled a meeting for? Holman was not deterred by this look, distracted by staring hard at Hamfast, who seemed to be nervous with the way he was wiping his hands on his trousers.

“It’s been long in coming but as you know I don’t get ‘round quite as well as I used to, and Mister Gamgee has been coming ‘long as my apprentice. I would like to retract myself from your service full-time, and leave most of my gardening to the boy, here. ‘F it pleases you I’ll still come ‘round once a fortnight or so-“

“Oh, is that all!” Bilbo blurted, blushing a bit as he finally remembered the meeting. Hamfast had been nearing the end of his apprenticeship, and Bag End being one of the larger properties the gardeners managed was ripe for a sort of journeyman work, to take care of by himself. Poor Hamfast, fingers clenched together, seemed to think that Bilbo was saying no to the offer and wilted like a flower in the heat. “No! I mean yes! Confound it; apologies, sirs, I am not myself today, as you can likely tell. Young Hamfast I would be glad to have you on as the full-time gardener for my estate, you’re doing wonderfully. Holman, you’ve certainly trained the lad well and I would be glad to have him on here as long as you make sure to visit as often as you please! The both of you have been a dream – why, my garden has never looked better! And I trust you two to figure out the details for yourselves; you know that apart from my tomatoes I’m pants at the finer points of gardening.”

Shared grins lightened the mood especially, and Holman preened a bit at the praise, Sam – no, Hamfast – elbowing the older a little in excitement.

“That you are, Mister Bilbo, that you are, but don’ worry, my ‘prentice here will make sure your garden stays the best of the Row so you can focus on those prize ‘maters ‘f yours! We’ll iron out the details and Hamfast’ll put a letter in your mailbox by Trewsday at the latest.” With a meaningful glance at Hamfast and then the setting sun, Holman got to his feet with the tween bowing after him, blubbering something about how excited he was to be given the opportunity. Bilbo smiled and nodded as best he could, but the trials of waking from the **blackness** and immediately dealing with long-dead friends must have showed on his face, for the two left out the front gate and down the Row, chatting lowly.

 

By Trewsday. Bilbo struggled to put a timeline together in his head. It had to be early in the week, as the rubbish wasn’t set out for the cart, so probably Sunday or Monday. And it wouldn’t be long after this that Hamfast would – or was it had? – painted his door. Slowly he remembered that it was one of the first tasks he had set to Hamfast, who spent several days painting imaginary blemishes before he had announced that the project was finished. So... Astron. It was early Astron.

 

Just about two weeks before the Quest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holman Greenhand trained the Gaffer as a gardener around the time of Bilbo's quest, if not a little before. The Gaffer did die of old age, though Bilbo had to hear about his death from Frodo and Sam they had parted when the Gaffer was very much an old hobbit.
> 
> Trewsday is Tuesday, and Astron is April - feel free to look up the Shire calendar if you're interested, though my whole point in it was to give some hobbit culture as well as orient Bilbo. Textually Gandalf appears around 25 Astron to push Bilbo out the door, which I feel is a date he would later celebrate and thus remember.


	4. Deep Barrel Inn

Even after days back in his childhood smial there were times that Bilbo felt as if he were trespassing. Sleeping in one of his lesser-used guestrooms had been the answer after two nights of restless tossing and turning. A quick glance into the room that would be Frodo’s had Bilbo slamming the door shut and heading outside for a long smoke. Bag End was too empty and too strange, and the orientation of the furniture alone threw him off, let alone the lack of portraits and mathoms and familiar smells. The oak chair he had been bequeathed by Uncle Hildigrim Took before Bilbo’s return was conspicuously absent, and the writing desk he had shifted from the study to the front room after Frodo moved in didn’t even exist yet, as far as he knew.

List after list of thing to do or to remember peppered the front room, and he had taken to keeping a few spare sheets of parchment and sticks of charcoal to write spontaneous thoughts in the night. The idea had come to him after his meeting with Hamfast and Holman that if he could change that one meeting – for originally they had stayed to celebrate and gotten rip-roaring drunk so that Hamfast’s father had to help deliver him home – then he could change anything. But it had taken him decades to write down his adventures after he had allowed himself to think of more than the deaths of his friends. Now, at somewhere around 135 years old – for they didn’t celebrate birthdays in the undying lands – it was more than difficult to remember the particulars of the beginning of the quest over 85 years prior.

He had managed to puzzle out a general progression of events, as well as several instances that were most important to his predicament. Obviously his friends’ lives were at stake, but knowing what he did about the One Ring it was obvious that somehow he must either find it himself, or tell someone trustworthy about the location. Which, at this point, meant Gandalf, but the issue remained that he wasn’t even sure where in the mountain the Ring had been, other than ‘deep’.

When thinking about the quest it was hard to reconcile his younger body with his natural expectations of himself. After giving up the Ring Bilbo had aged rapidly and found long walks and sitting immobile for periods of time incredibly difficult, even with the healing atmosphere of Valinor. He had simply been riddled with stiffness and brittle with old age, something that the lands couldn’t heal. It had been a shock to see himself in the mirror above the mantle, his wildly curly hair and smooth face looking surprised and _so young..._ though it made sense as his limbs had ached but not in their usual way, more with injury than age. As the soreness in his muscles had abated, his walks about Hobbiton illustrated his regained strength. Now, debating how best to get to the Ring, to outfit himself, and to help his friends-to-be, he was excited at his own capacity yet afraid of what may come to be.

If he played his cards well, he could right his wrongs – his regrets – even before they happened. He held on to that thought, unsure if he could bear a second witness to  _those_ events. 

 

 

Already an order had been made, and in a day or so on the 23rd Astron he was to have a large amount of dry goods, foodstuffs, and some traveling gear delivered to his smial. After talking with Hamfast about his door he had made an early trip to the Big Market, and contracted the current Farmer Maggot, a dour hobbit who had clearly passed his manners on to his son, if Bilbo remembered correctly. Since the food order was mostly coming from the Eastfarthing he had time to prepare the rest of what he needed for the journey, including putting his affairs in order. By Varda, if he had to deal with being declared dead again he would be stringing several hobbits – and one wizard – up by their toes.

 

Mid-way through the week it had come to him that the trolls would not be stone yet - had perhaps not even passed down from the Trollshaws to murder the farmers and burn their small home. It took surprisingly little effort to hire a courier, given that he provided thrice the necessary funds to deliver the message as well as a sturdy leather pack of supplies for the runner. His coffers were certainly lighter from all his spending, but with lives on the line and a sizable dragon hoard waiting for him, Bilbo could afford to be generous. The young man from Bree set off the same day with Bilbo's letter to the farmers, and instructions on which roads to take. It would have to do, and Bilbo spent several long moments praying in hopes of their safety. If he was incorrect and the trolls had already made their way down, he was certainly sending that boy to his death. 

 

But he couldn't afford to dwell. His tenants seemed peaceable with the idea of delivering their payments to Hamfast – who would in turn deliver the items to the turnman of Bilbo’s vineyards. Hilden Proudfoot was an honest hobbit who had been turnman of his possessions and estate for decades, since Bungo had seen fit to train Bilbo in the true Baggins trades: property and wine. Owning so many pieces was good if one was a Landlord – as Bilbo was – but he was sick and tired of writing letters and such, even if he had only been back in this role for about a week. And he kept forgetting things, saved only by his own meticulous records and the habits of responsibilities he had abandoned long ago.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Bilbo was sealing the last letter, another copy of his instructions and Will to send to the Thain just in case, when there was a knock at the door.

So far, Bilbo had managed to keep his activities relatively hidden and his house relative-free by simply faking an illness and deciding to not contact anyone. He felt removed from most of the hobbits – and not a little nervous at seeing old faces he had said goodbye to over the last century – so he had resigned to not cause waves by simply fading away. No doubt as soon as he was discovered missing, or was seen leaving the Shire, eggs would break, but until then he would be content to fret about his coming quest in peace. It was enough to plan the provisions, let alone how seeing the company together and hale would go affect him.

“Bilbo! I know you’re in there! Open up and tell my why you are ordering enough food for a village of Men! Bilbo, please, sweeting, I will only ask once more!”

Oh, Eru save him, it was Aunt Belba.

Belba Baggins had married Rudigar Bolger and become incredibly focused on families and blood and overall sticking her nose into everyone’s business. Having enough money from her Baggins side to make her an attractive figure to many hobbits had helped ease the sting of her shrill voice. No matter the day of the week she could be found in a smial not her own, listening to gossip and building a web as grand as any spider’s. It helped that she was, at heart, a sweet soul, and often did or made things for those she considered family. Lobelia had looked up to Belba quite a lot, and after she married Otho Sackville-Baggins had glued herself to her aunt-in-law, though in her mimicry she had managed a poor job of it. Vaguely Bilbo remembered Odovacar, a descendant of Belba’s, as well as Rosamond Took having a few fauntlings together in the years just before Bilbo left the Shire. At least something good had come of her.

 

Not in the mood to entertain the kind of gossip and questions he knew he’d be asked – even from one of his favorite aunts – Bilbo elected to do a very burglar-ish thing and sneak out for a pint. It definitely didn’t help his mood to think of Lobelia and the things that had happened to her and Hobbiton, so not thinking about it was certainly an alternative for the moment. Especially when months of marching across middle earth lay in front of him.

Walking silently to the garden door, Bilbo hesitated for a bit before turning around and going to the other side of the smial. His aunt could likely see around to the side door, but she would never think to look for him escaping out the east side windows. He carefully unlatched one and wiggled through easily, before a skip and a run took him quickly down the hill. He hopped the fence that bordered the Row and jogged peaceably until he could no longer hear his aunt’s voice in the distance.

It was in these quiet times, alone and in nature, that he thought again to the _Song_ that hadn't left, and he hummed along as he strolled. If there were buds of grass springing up in his footsteps, or a few mice trailing in his wake, he did not notice.

Briefly he thought of heading down as far as Bywater to drink at the Green Dragon, but the hour kept him close so instead he headed down to the smaller inn near the Water, named the Deep Barrel Inn for the alcohol they served, though little else was good. Some distant relation of his owned it, but neither of them had ever been close enough to speak, and often during his bachelorhood he had brewed his own small biers.

The Inn itself was smaller than he remembered, and musty dark, the fireplace smoking lightly rather than heating the room, though it was still Astron and a nice temperature. The barman greeted him lazily as Bilbo sidled up into a seat, and without question slid a mug of home-brew over with a smile.

Sipping at his drink, Bilbo scanned the room, choking abruptly and turning around before his interest was noticed. Knees bent comically with legs encircling an entire table, was no other than Gandalf. He didn’t seem to notice Bilbo, absorbed as he was in muttering to himself over a large sheaf of papers spread about. The hobbit at the bar noticed Bilbo’s glances and leaned closer.

“Interesting fellow, eh? Looks a lot like that disturber of the peace the Old Took kept inviting around, Yavanna bless, though he acts a bit less dangerous and a bit more crazy than I’d imagine.” The other hobbit snorted a bit, and inwardly Bilbo was impressed at his identification – though he’d never say anything – but few Big Folk came into town at all, and the stories of Gandalf told to faunts at parties and otherwise tended to stick in the head, they were repeated so often. Ironically every young fauntling dreamed of Gandalf not because of his prowess as a wizard, but because he was generally known as a crazy shit-stirrer who was loaded with fireworks.

Not too far off, really.

“Sounds interesting, but I’m sure it’s not him. Probably dead of old age by now, I’d wager, given that the Old Took himself was young when he went on his dalliances with the man. Thanks for the pint, by the way. Very good. Which brew is this?” The barkeep brightened at the question and began a lecture on the different varieties he produced and what he had on a day-by-day basis, for which Bilbo was grateful. He couldn’t help sneaking glances at Gandalf, heart pounding as the presence of the wizard really hammered in what had happened. In the span of a week he had gone from living in advanced retirement, to drifting in what he suspected was the Halls of Mandos, to living again a life he thought he had left behind. Somehow, Gandalf made it real in a way that his neighbors and surroundings couldn’t – and he was a wizard, so out of all of the people Bilbo knew, he was most likely to either understand the situation and why it had happened, or be able to help Bilbo not mess it up. He stared at the barkeep's lips as they moved, but all he could hear was the  _Song_ and his heartbeat in his ears.

 

Apparently he really wasn’t paying much attention to the barkeep as the hobbit shut up abruptly and moved away. A hand on his shoulder nearly put Bilbo out of his misery, when a soft, aged voice spoke from above him.  
  
“Why, Bilbo, my dear boy, you are just the hobbit I was looking for!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many notes for this chapter...
> 
> Hildigrim Took dies during the year Bilbo is gone, and bequeathed him the oak chair as a sign of belief that Bilbo would return. The fact that it's oak made it a little sentimental for Bilbo as well.
> 
> Bilbo is accepted to have died at 131, though I don't see him making it to Valinor and then immediately croaking. Especially not if the land is steeped in the Song.
> 
> Trusting people with the location and reality of the ring is going to be a major issue, and really with the running and craziness around Bilbo's encounter with Gollum he likely has no clue exactly where the Ring is.
> 
> Farmer Maggot's name is never mentioned specifically, and it would be this farmer's son who we encounter with Frodo.
> 
> Bilbo, here, is a landowner, and the turnman position I did a bit of inventing with, as Hilden Proudfoot doesn't exist, nor does his occupation. Imagine him an accountant/solicitor/plantation manager, though Bilbo normally does some of those things himself.
> 
> Belba Baggins and family ties are all canon, though I took great liberty with her character as she isn't ever really described as a hobbit. Lobelia had to get it somewhere.
> 
> The Deep Barrel Inn doesn't actually exist, as far as I know, but was too ironically named not to use it.
> 
> Happy Reading!


	5. Talk of Adventures

Rather than reply like a normal hobbit, Bilbo was immediately caught up in the waves of _Song_ that seemed to emanate from the wizard. He had no clue how he had never noticed it before; his presence alone sent ripples around him, and the hair on Bilbo’s neck, arms, and feet stood on end in a shivery-good feeling.

“Bilbo Baggins?” Gandalf’s eyebrows were drawn together, and he was looking at Bilbo as if afraid the hobbit was touched in the head. Oops.

“Yes, I’m afraid you startled me, good sir! I was lost in thought and this delicious drink!” Licking his lips, Bilbo took an example swig and tried to look innocent and not so startled or awkward. He had hoped for more time before he met others, especially Gandalf, as he wasn’t sure how to approach the wizard. “May I ask your name? You already seem to know mine.”

“Quite.” Gandalf muttered, looking unconvinced. “I am Gandalf – the Grey, as it were – but likely you should have forgotten all about me, drinking as you are.”

The barman made a choked noise, though Bilbo managed to catch his eye as he was ‘cleaning’ glasses near them, glaring harshly so that the other hobbit blushed and moved farther down to give the two more privacy. Fantastic. If word got out that Gandalf was here, his strange supply orders would be taking on a different tone and he might not be able to avoid meddling hobbits. Gandalf seemed to see the exchange, yet didn’t comment and Bilbo was grateful. This was not going the way he planned.

“Yes, erm, I remember you – it’s been decades, though, hasn’t it? Last I knew you were headed off somewhere after visiting Tuckborough. I remember my mother hauling us off but we managed to miss you.”

“Ah! Belladonna. My condolences, dear boy, your mother was a fire in the dark. I received news, a few years after I left, of what happened that winter, and couldn’t bring myself to come back to so many absent faces. I do hope you forgive me.”

“Oh.” Bilbo said softly. This was not something he had known – maybe it was the change in the setting, or perhaps it was Gandalf who was a bit drunk – but though he knew Gandalf and his mother had been friends, the wizard had never really said much about it. Bilbo had been too young to understand or remember their dealings, other than the wizard’s fireworks and his mother’s stories of him (mostly untrue). “Well, I’m sure that I don’t blame you. It was a hard time, after all. You said you were looking for me, though? After all this time it can’t be about my mother?”

“Ah, no, you happen to be correct. Things are happening, Bilbo, grand, important things that may well shape the future of Middle Earth! You are needed to help out a special project of mine, an adventure, as it were.”

“Where to? What sort of important things? I may not look like much but I am not some soft head from Hardbottle. Adventures make you turn up missing and late for dinner – why should I help you, after all, when you have been gone for all of my adult life? And labeled a disturber of the peace, no less!”

“Well, well, well... You’ve got a bit thicker skin than I expected, living here in the soft Shire for so long, Mr. Baggins. This adventure I have will shape the fate of many – immediately the dwarrow who reside in the Blue Mountains, or the Mountains of Lune as you may know them. We intend to venture to their home, and I need a good, reliable hobbit to fill out the company. You came immediately to mind, Bilbo, and I think it should be very good for you.”

As if the conversation was over, the wizard stood, nodded at Bilbo, smiling genially, and went back over to his table and his papers. Struck by the wizard’s matter-of-fact actions so alike the Gandalf he knew before, Bilbo could only help but chuckle. There were some things that would always stay the same.

Pretending to be confused, Bilbo waved for a second mug and began nursing the drink. It was obvious from the way Gandalf had talked with him that the wizard did not know that Bilbo was not who he should have been. The difference in encounter was refreshing, though, and already Bilbo could see things changing – he hoped, though, that the dwarrow would still show up around the same time as they had previously, otherwise his preparations may not be finished.

If he was any less knowledgeable, he may have assumed that Gandalf was crazy, or that he had decided not to pester Bilbo any longer with adventure, but likely Gandalf himself thought that he had done a fine job of recruiting the hobbit. Though, in reality, Bilbo had come along last time, and their conversation had been even less forthcoming than now. But Bilbo knew what was up, and felt prepared as much as he could be. Plunking a few coppers down for the drinks he stepped away from the bar to notice that Gandalf had disappeared sometime during his musings. Likely he was staying upstairs, but as Bilbo meandered the short walk to his smial, he wondered how much effort it took to act so mysterious all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's mother, here, was killed in the Fell Winter and Gandalf never quite forgave himself for not being there. Hopefully Bilbo will be able to punch through Gandalf's mysterious exterior and become closer to him.
> 
> The Blue Mountains, or the Mountains of Lune (Westron), is a mountain range that houses several dwarven settlements, both old and new, including Thorin's Halls where many of the displaced residents of Erebor live. I likely won't be calling it Ered Luin unless it's an elf speaking, considering that's the Sindarin name for the range.
> 
> Bilbo could give Gandalf the Spanish Inquisition, but that would be rather a lot of effort for him, wouldn't it?


	6. Dinner Preparations

Pacing nervously was fast becoming the only thing Bilbo could do. In the few days since his run-in with Gandalf, Bilbo had been a whirlwind of a hobbit, getting supplies put together, packing away mathoms and things for his absence, and preparing doughs and morsels, marinades and brews for the dwarrow soon to find his hearth. Indeed, sometime during the night after their meeting, Gandalf had found his way to Bilbo’s still freshly-painted door and carved the famous rune on it with his staff. Curiously, when Bilbo got close to it, the _Song_ seemed concentrated in the mark, and touching it warmed his skin. More and more, in his idle moments, Bilbo thought about the _Song_ he had heard, sure that it was the song of Eru and the world, yet confused as to why he should be hearing it. His musings did little to answer his questions, though as the days progressed he began to feel warmth in his body whenever he concentrated on the _Song_ , similar to that mark. It was a curious thing.

But not something to worry overly much about, as very soon Dwalin would likely be arriving, and Bilbo wouldn’t be upended this time. If that dwarf thought to eat before the rest of the company got there, Bilbo would rap his knuckles with a spoon.

Luckily, Hamfast had assisted in moving things about in the largest dining room, and taking much of the excess furniture in his living rooms and parlors out. It was all shoved either into his office or downstairs to the cellar where it was wrapped in blankets to keep away moisture. Hamfast, bless him, had been confused yet eager to help with no questions beyond “would you like this set here?” Chairs lined the long table, and brackets on the bottom had been lifted to raise it a few inches for the slightly taller guests; Gandalf may have even been able to fit his knees under the slab.

His best silver was out – why not use it, when he was going away? – and already the table was peppered with baskets of warm bread made from wheats, corns, and some from a sour dough, with butters and dishes of cream dotting the elbows of nearly each setting. Cuts of cheeses were laid out in an appetizer for early arrivals. Pickles, cucumbers, carrots and smaller greens were laid neatly on platters, though Bilbo knew many in the company would snub their noses at them when given the choice.

It had not been a large point of discussion, but Bilbo had realized along the last adventure that the settlements in Thorin’s Halls had been going a bit hungry. On the road they ate well, at least before they lost their supplies in the mountains. But this was only because they were traveling with royalty, and were well funded by several of the company. Many faces had been thin throughout, and some had scarfed down their food with hungry eyes more than once even as they paced through the Shire. It had taken Bilbo, a prosperous enough hobbit, several days to realize this and he had immediately quit complaining about food at all, ashamed. They would not go hungry again, if he had any say in it.

 

Lighting candles and opening windows to the cool evening air, Bilbo jumped as a loud thud rang throughout his smial. He yelled a greeting as he ran toward the noise, pleading with himself that this would go well. Stopping briefly, he forced himself to take several deep breaths and opened the door.

 

Dwalin was not quite sure what to expect when Tharkûn had told Thorin about the hobbit burglar he had in mind, nor when they had received a letter of confirmation and directions through the quiet Shire to Hobbiton and a clearly labeled “Bag End”. The little hobbits he saw were very strange, and scarce, so much that he figured only a few must live in the area. An older hobbit with a trowel had given him growling directions up the road, and so far that was all he had spoken to the large-footed halflings. Hopefully this wasn’t a waste of time, for all that Dwalin doubted the success of their venture.

Dwalin opened the gate and propped it back, wondering how many of his kin were here yet – Balin had pledged to come months ago, though Dwalin had left him in favor of attending to several letters Thorin wanted delivered. He had left a bit early, agreeing to be the first to investigate the home, warrior that he was. Seeing no mechanism as they used in the mountains, Dwalin slammed a meaty hand on the door, knuckle dusters scraping a bit at the nearly-fresh paint. Distantly he heard a startled yell, though it took several minutes until the strangest hobbit he had seen so far opened the door.

“Come in! Come in! Bilbo Baggins, at your service, master...?”

“Dwalin, son of Fundin, at yours and your family’s, Master Baggins.” Vaguely Dwalin was impressed with the lad, who seemed almost eager to see him with the way he smiled. Strange, but nice compared to some welcomes he had received.

“May Yavanna bless you! Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, please make yourself at home. While we wait for the others I’ll show you your room. I've twelve extra beds but only ten rooms, so a few will have to share, but we can do any rearranging after we have all arrived and eaten.” Bilbo knew he was babbling a bit as he led the dwarf down the hall and to a room with fresh linens already on one of the beds and a wash basin set out. “The toilet is just down the hall and to the left, the door is labeled, you see. When you’re done freshening up – take your time! – please join me back down the hall in the sitting room. I believe I have some tea ready if you’d like, or something stronger.”

Dwalin grumbled some sort of thank you in Khuzdul, going so far as to tentatively smile at the hobbit. Bilbo felt a little guilty, knowing that the previous time he had been so startled that he had not offered his guests rooms and they had slept in the living room floor near the hearth. This time he was determined to do things right.

Pouring tea and setting out some brandy and whiskey in the main living room, Bilbo managed himself for a few moments as he heard Dwalin puttering around in the toilet. Not five minutes later another knock came at the door, but Bilbo was ready, and greeted Balin eagerly.

 

The aged dwarf wasn’t sure how to react to the overly-friendly hobbit; indeed as advisor he had met and read about the halflings, and most he had encountered were wary of other folk, though very giving and merry nonetheless. This hobbit seemed to take it to extremes. Idly he noticed that he had been given a room with his brother, and was thankful for the proximity so that they could quietly talk.

Knocking their heads together affectionately, the brothers closed their eyes and said a prayer to Mahal for their luck in finding one another again.

“You look shorter, and fatter, dear Balin, though it has only been months!”

“Fatter, not shorter, brother! Though your head looks cleaner than last I met you!” The two laughed a bit to themselves, resting down on Dwalin’s bed.

“Clearly the hobbit is no threat, and though I question Gandalf’s motives at least the lad seems prepared with food and beds for us. Even if he doesn’t join us we will have saved a pretty piece of silver for not sleeping at an inn!”

“I agree, Dwalin, though there seems to be fortitude to the hobbit that I did not expect. He was very resolute in dealing with me, and had no small amount of tact. We shall see, I imagine, though I don’t know whether or not to show him the contract now or to wait until Thorin arrives. I would hate to conduct business without him, but if we are to discuss things plainly Thorin is likely to be in an awful mood. He sent me a raven before I left to say he had arrived in Belegost, and that the other Lords did not seem willing to lend aid at all. The talks were still ongoing, but they did not look good and I would not have our misfortune lose us another backer.”

“Hmm...” Dwalin stroked his beard. “Well, it would likely do better to feel out what he knows of the situation, at least. If anyone else arrives, we will wait, but at the least we can assess this burglar Tharkûn has chosen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul, is, of course, the secret dwarven language, though here I have them using it a bit more freely than some fics do, though they definitely won't be explaining what it is they're saying to a non-dwarf.
> 
> Tharkûn is the Khuzdul name for Gandalf.
> 
> Hopefully Thorin's meeting doesn't make him as cranky as they expect.


End file.
